


Male Reader X Female Predator / Yautja

by CampGreen



Category: Predator (1987)
Genre: F/M, Horror, Literature, fan fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 11:33:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13053174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CampGreen/pseuds/CampGreen
Summary: The Predator is owned by 20th Century Fox. Big thanks to Sholhar for helping out with this story's writing process.





	1. Big-Game Hunting

The sound of nature serves an effective alarm clock, stirring your partially hungover self out from your wrinkled covers. An uncomfortable stiffness laces your muscles, but you do away with it through a few satisfying twists, turns, and stretches, making the tension in your bones disperse within the brutal cracks of your joints. The chill of autumn bleeds into the gaps of your lonely rental cabin, making you shudder the second your feet hit the floor. The cold isn't your priority right now, however. It's your hunger. There's a hollow gnawing in your belly, and you totter over to your mini-fridge to fix that with that box of waffles you've been saving. You're confused when you open the fridge and there's no distinctive chill that sweeps over you, nor a hum coming from the small box of white aluminum. You peek inside the yellow cardboard package and just as you feared, the waffles spoiled overnight, as did your half-empty carton of milk. The fridge's plug somehow loosened, probably a casualty of your late-night drunken stupor, and now there's not a single crumb of edible food for miles. Well, actually, that's completely untrue, you think as you eye the unloaded Model 870 resting against the door frame. 

Clouds bursting with rain consume the edges of the sky, as you can see through your window. Your hand-me-down car is already on the brink of death, if you get it caught in a thunderstorm for a grocery run you'll be without any wheels for who knows how long. Deer are common in this area, it shouldn't take more than half an hour to get one downed and dressed before the bad weather rolls in. You slip your legs into the black jeans and underwear you left crumbled up on the carpet, your hands into a pair of gloves, and your feet into a pair of winter boots, fumbling with the laces for a while until there's a firm choke around your ankles. You lovingly slide a 20 gauge cartridge into your Remington's feeding slot, strapping a few extra to its receiver just in case. Then you smuggle the cheapest, most compact game processor you could find at the closest sports center underneath the flaps of your camouflage jacket, before zipping it up and slinging your shotgun over your shoulder by its strap like a backpack. You venture a few paces from your cabin, listening to the grains crunch beneath the ridges of your boot bottoms as you stroll down an all too familiar dirt road. Once you get deep enough into the vast paddock of timber, you stray from the path, settle your rear down on on the roots of a tree and rest your back against its trunk. 

Fortunately you left your pack and lighter in your back pocket, so you waste no time lighting up a cigarette, not only to calm your nerves but to mask your scent from potential prey. In the midst of your smoke break, you spot a gorgeous whitetail doe merrily prancing through the grass, nibbling at the freshest patches it can find. The thing's so adorable that it really pains you to put it down, but you're the predator and it's your prey. That's nature. Cancer stick still hanging out of your mouth, you quietly and carefully line up the shot before blasting the poor animal in its boiler room - the heart and lungs, instantly and painlessly putting it down. Dozens of birds scatter from their perches among the trees at the deafening sound of a shell being dealt to their fellow wildlife. You approach its limp corpse and silently thank it for another well-fed night as you stomp your smoke out. 

Right as you crack open up your field-dressing kit, your heart skips a beat when another deer comes galloping past you at its top speed, this time a buck. After recovering from the shock, by then it's long gone to shoot, you recoil in the bewilderment. A full-grown deer would never ever retreat from a human by damn near tackling it. So it wasn't you who spooked it. Another hunter in the area, maybe a coyote, who knows. You look in the direction it was running from when a nigh-indescribable noise that makes your spine jingle like a baby rattle echoes for miles. A deep, shallow, ominous clicking, with the bellowing presence of a cicada's song. You've never heard anything like it. You can't even pinpoint the kingdom behind whatever monstrosity made such a noise. Uhh, a broken duck call, maybe? 

You rack your 870, popping a spent round from it to make room for a fresh one. You're afraid of the doe's meat going bad but you're not about to start dressing it only to get pounced by a nearby coyote or...whatever the fuck, so you survey a few yards with your finger on the trigger. You hear something shuffling about the branches and leaves above. Sounds like squirrels parkouring from tree to tree but you don't see a single form of life for miles. Before you know it, your vision is nothing but the worst blur imaginable whilst your ears are almost trapped in a horrid, unending ring. Meanwhile, you're thrown to the ground from the tree closest to you exploding. Smoke, dirt, and splinters rain down onto you, and as you cough and writhe near a patch of flaming grass, the war-torn trunk comes tumbling down. 

You narrowly manage to roll out of the way at the last second and save yourself from a shattered sternum. What the hell was that? An explosive trap set up by an overzealous hunter? As the smoke clears and you scramble to your feet, you get your answer. Something falls out of the branches with a perfect landing. A figure...you think. When you squint your eyes, just barely can you see the outline of...something, something vaguely humanoid. It's like a silhouette-shaped heat haze stalking you from the-OH FUCK. A shrapnel of some blue sci-fi shit comes flying at you from the distant shimmer with the sound of some baritone, vaguely gunfire-esque noise. You instinctively and barely manage to duck it before it decimates your...everything, so it instead lands in the background of the rest of the forest, unleashing another explosion upon it. As if the invisible thing trying to raze you with a laser cannon wasn't motivation enough, you get the hell out of there once more smoldering trees attempt bodydropping you. You zig-zag through the army of neighboring timber with more spearheads of plasma in hot pursuit, slicing through bark and butchering the surrounding nature. Your mind and heart race in unison as one tries to make sense of the situation while the other tries to keep your body fueled enough to keep running for your life. 

What the fuck is happening?! Some type of experimental artillery strike?! Is there a local military weapons facility you weren't aware of?! You dive behind a tree, use one hand to cradle your shotgun, and use the other to mask the lower half of your face and silence your hyperventilation. Nothing. Just a few seconds ago, it sounded like a war-zone, now there's nothing. Then there's something. Footsteps. What sounds like boots stomping down on the forest floor, crunching leaves and snapping twigs. You ever so slightly peak around the cylinder of bark you hide behind, and sure enough, both the footsteps and that terrible, otherworldly drone that lured you into this hellhole are coming from an easy-to-miss, humanoid gleam patrolling the woods. Your heartbeat roars in your ears as you watch the traces of your Predator slowly sweep the nearby foliage. A dread that cannot be put to words paralyzes your entire body, induced by the sensations of being hunted down like a dirty animal, like a Predator's prey. 


	2. Predator vs. Prey

The weapon of wood and metal you desperately cuddle with at least alleviates the helplessness, and your trembling wrists manage to take aim in response to the Predator's scan of the woods slowing down to a halt. You shakily slide a backup shell into its loading flap, and right as your finger slams down on the trigger with the evil blur a dozen yards away from its barrel, you nearly shit your pants as you realize the Predator halted to line up its shot on _you_. The two of you fire simultaneously, and the plasma bolt cleanly eats through your shell, shredding through your Remington in half and melting it in seconds. You drop the blistering remains of the shotgun to the grass and go back to taking cover behind the sapling, protecting your head with your arms as you tense up for the next attempt on your life. Your shield of bark is blown to pieces, and you're left out in the open, completely helpless at the hands of whatever unseeable force of nature has it out for you. You cower among the smoking carcass of the tree you once groveled behind, in the shadow of some invisible monster as it stomps over to and curiously eyes you. 

Three red dots projected by the Predator's mask paint your forehead like a Bindi. Right as you ready for one final burst of plasma to cleanly punch a baseball-sized hole in your head, thunder growls throughout the clouds above, shaking a shower of rain out from them. The Predator is outlined by the thousands of droplets bouncing off of it, and then worms of electricity start crawling up its unseen frame, before the cloak malfunctions and is slowly shed to fully reveal it. It's an absolute beast of a woman, overhanging you by about two entire feet. Her Olympian muscles are tightly hugged by sickly skin, which too is tightly hugged by a black net jumpsuit, which is finally hugged by tactical body armor protecting her shoulders, shins, forearms, and chest, while a tattered brown loin cloth serves as a veil for the top front half of her lower body. Her hands, with coal-colored, razor-sharp fingernails, are clenched in a pair of black fingerless gloves, her head is entirely locked in some type of matching gas-mask that isn't of this world, and a bush of dread-locks fall from her scalp and down to her shoulders, crowned by the precip oozing off of her. A bulky, futuristic, pistol-type cannon is mounted atop her right shoulder, and its barrel freshly smokes with the several lasers it flung at you earlier. Your heart, now at the point of exploding from fear, is given a well-deserved break when the cannon retreats back into the pauldron it's installed upon...and then replaced by a couple of razor sharp blades baring from one of her gauntlets with a "SHING!" intimidating enough to nearly soak your pants with piss. 

The Predator swings at you with the two foot-long knives, an attack you narrowly duck. The blades' tips scrap up against the skin of the tree behind you instead. With the beast off balance, you're barely able to send your fist flying into the warrior's mask with the height difference, almost breaking it. Almost breaking your hand, that is. You scream and cringe in pain up against the nearest log as you squeeze your cracked wrist. The Predator shadows you by shooting a punch right back, except it's not fair because her punch is spiked with a couple of razor sharp swords. You again duck the strike and it's caught on a nearby rock formation, cracking one of the blades clean off her gauntlet so it tumbles into sea of pine straw below. Right as you swipe up the broken shank, she seizes you by the neck with her other hand, effortlessly swooping you up and instantly crushing every ounce of breath you once had out from your throat. She rears her other fist back and readies to slide her last Wrist-Blade in between your ribs, but you stab the other shank of metal into the unarmored upper arm that's strangling the life out of you.

An unearthly roar explodes out from underneath her mask, and she instinctively drops you back to the ground. Quickly shaking out of the shock and pain, she casually peels the blade out of her arm. The end you stabbed her with is soaked in neon green blood, just as alien as everything else about her. The drizzle of the sky briskly cleans it away. The Predator punches down with her good arm and you're nearly speared by her last remaining knife. You again dodge the strike with a roll to the side so she gets herself stuck in the forests' roots and soil. You laugh at the creature as it tries to wiggle itself out from the dirt. Finally at something vaguely resembling an upper hand, you exploit it by booting her in the face. Baby-steps, this time it didn't almost break anything and she flinched, though it probably hurt her feelings more than anything else. Annoyed, she swats you away like a fly, which happens to land right in between your legs. Your scrotum distends and fattens with pain as you collapse the ground. A mere backhand was enough to almost make you puke, God knows how you would've responded to a proper punch to the balls. 

The Predator retracts her Wrist-Blade to free herself from the floor. You're out for the count on the forest floor, while she's only down one blade and with a nasty gash in her arm. At least you scathed the beast and went down fighting. You hear yourself laugh again. Did the universe's sound designers mess up the audio or something? You realize the laugh is a distorted recording coming from underneath her mask. She's mocking you with your own laugh. The last thing you'll hear is your own nervous, desperate chuckle as you're skinned alive by some futuristic savage. She seems entertained by your crotch as you clutch it in agony. Predators don't just hunt their prey, they study them. They find out their weaknesses, their vulnerabilities, their weak-spots for future hunts. Like a researcher making new discoveries on the animal it's observing, she seems fascinated by how, after such a stubborn struggle, a simple swat to a certain part of your body instantly won her the fight. She walks over to you and sinks her knees into the wet, dead leaves on the ground. She's so insanely mammoth in size that she completely imprisons you by simply getting on all fours over you. Her arms and thighs act as inescapable cell bars. 

Fortunately, the rain starts to clear up once she starts stripping you down. She painlessly exposes your shivering body to the elements by severing the veins of your jacket and boots with her  fingernails, climaxing your undressing with a jerk of your pants and underwear down by about half a foot to reveal all she thinks as as a funny-looking "weak-spot". 

Your tender extremity she's more than happy to experiment with. 


	3. Trophy Room

The Predator curiously tunes your oh-so sensitive member, seeing which little spots make you squeal the loudest and shudder the hardest. She switches to her exposed soles and starts ironing the veins in your pounding shaft. Like her hands, her size 20-ish feet completely envelope and makes it seem not just microscopic, but nonexistent in comparison. The ends of her black, jagged toenails relentlessly tickle every inch of your penis, which is enough to send your balls erupting with cum. You're immobilized by the inflammation of indulgence, undoubtedly shed of a few more thousand calories than any workout ever could've done. She drags two of her fingers across your chest to scour up the foot-long creek of cock snot and scans it with the arsenal of hyper-advanced technology she has spliced into her armor, this time that laser sights that shoot out roughly one of the eyebrows of her mask. Flicking the clump of sperm away into the grass, her eyes glow through her visor and without a single word, more like a cartilage-rattling hiss of some sort, she makes it obvious she wants more. 

A **lot** more.

She hoists your naked body up on her shoulders as if you weigh less than a feather, and carries you even deeper into the jungly forest. If there was any doubt that this thing is an alien, it vanishes when she takes you to a spaceship straight out of a sci-fi film, about the size of a mobile home. One of her gauntlets flip open, and she types something in, which makes an entrance ease open with billows of steam following the high-tech metal drawbridge. She climbs the ramp with you still slung over her back, and she shows you the gothic, twisted interior, a modest glimpse at a culture from several galaxies away - her...Trophy Room. 

The gloomy chamber's walls are sprawled with grisly decorations. The spotless skeletons of extraterrestrial design and structure, like some type of grotesque art museum thought up by a seriously demented yet creative mind. A blush of green flashes on your face once you realize one of those many "trophies" draping the walls is a netted bag of human skulls pinned up alongside the rest, about half a dozen of them. You whisper a prayer underneath your breath that the Predator will show you the mercy she never showed your fellow humans, or fellow lifeforms for that matter, before she sweeps you to the floor so you land on your knees with an aching thud. 

She too gets on the knees, taking two big squishy handfuls of her butt-cheeks and spreading them wide to give you a life-changing peek of her air-tight butthole, before letting them go so they spank together with an earthquake-esque jiggle that last for what feels like a hypnotizing eternity. She gets on her hands and you shake yourself out of your trance, realizing she wants you as deeply inside of her as the laws of nature allow. As not to keep her waiting, you hastily skitter onto the ginormous barbarian like you're scaling a mountain. You hold yourself up with two palms on her shoulders and dig each of your toes into one of her butt-cheeks, before your dickhead brushes up against her plump clit and finds its destiny. It slips past the thread grid of her jumpsuit and into the tiny crater of pink flesh, so you begin walloping your balls up against her beachball-sized ass-cheeks. You gulp, puff, and tremble with bliss as an Earthly counterpart to the Predator's pleasured alien coos that sound more and more human the more she learns from you, and they're all synced up alongside the slaps and squelches of interspecies lovemaking akin to a beautiful melody. 

You can feel your pre-cum escaping into her guts, followed by a truckload of jizz to jam-pack her anus with. You pull out and a cascade of cum closely follows your tender head in the evacuation like a ship's hole being breached, spilling a cup's worth of cream out onto the floor. You go limp with the proceeding fatigue and slide off the alp of meat and metal. She gets to her soles and shuffles about the cockpit's storage lockers to find a device that resembles those translucent cylindrical containers they send flying around the post office pipelines. She pops a squat over the glass capsule and lets the rest of your apparently endless cumload spill into it out her gaping asshole like she's pouring a glass from a pitcher, overfilling it with your "sample". She doesn't even need to spread her cheeks since you bulldozed her so hard she's already loose as a clown's pocket. You figure she's too lovesick to make hunting trophies of your remains like all the others, so she instead saves a memento in the form of your unused children. She descends down the slanted sheet of metal the two of you entered from and you, a hot, sticky, sweaty mess, manage to breathlessly chase after her. At the foot of the flat set of stairs, she undoes the fastens of her mask with a hiss and puff of depressurization vapor. With a body that far surpasses any human that's ever existed, surely her face is that of an ange-

Oh.

Well, uh.

She's a butterface. 

Wait a second, why is she grabbing your face? Is this thing seriously asking for a kis- OH, GOD, NO. 

You're forced to french the Predator and choke on her tongue as one last parting gift before she goes off to hunt on some other corner of the universe. You swallow your pride and her spit to endure the arduous, endless-seeming goodbye kiss, not that you would have a choice anyways, before your two "lips" decouple, the ramp rears back in, and the spacecraft blasts off back into the darkened, purple-ish sky, leaving you just as solitary as you were when you last woke up. You know, your situation is actually pretty grim. You've been chased into the belly of a cold, rainy, now night-sunken forest, potentially miles away from your still foodless rental cabin. You're also buck-naked, and without anything to defend yourself with. But you honestly couldn't care less. The afterglow of this night will last for the rest of your life, all the more reason to keep smoking. So, to recap, you might be starving, defenseless, and literally naked on a cold stormy night, stranded in the middle of no where... 

...but you got to cum inside the Predator, sooo...  



End file.
